Stronger
by Anonymoustache
Summary: An explosion at Scotland Yard, a strange and cryptic message left on the wall of a conference room, a deadly snake in a restaurant bathroom...what do they all mean? For Sherlock, it means a new adversary after the death of Moriarty. But who exactly is this dangerous new enemy? Is it just a harmless criminal? Or something more sinister? Established Johnlock, Mystrade
1. Explosions

_A/N; So there I was, busy as hell, and I promised myself and you guys I wouldn't start any new long-term stories until I was completely done with Healing And Crying._

_Well, as usual, I just couldn't help myself. _

_To be fair, this story was practically begging to be written. Quite literally, in fact...it was jumping up and down in my mind palace, yelling, "OOOO! OOOO! PICK ME!" So, because I am a fair and just person who cannot turn down a good prompt, I sat down and wrote the damn thing._

_As usual, reviews are to me what cake is to Mycroft; food of the gods ;)_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

"John! It was the blueberries! That's what killed her!"

John looked up from his book to see Sherlock dash across the living room and snatch his coat from the hook. "I'll be home late, don't wait up!" the detective yelled, and he was gone.

John sighed. Life with Sherlock was never boring, that was for sure.

* * *

John was chopping carrots for the stew when he heard his phone ring from the other room. He wiped his hands on a nearby towel and went to get it.

"John Watson here."

Lestrade's voice came crackling through the line. "John? Oh, thank God. Listen, get down here right now."

John raised an eyebrow. "Why? What's wrong? Did Sherlock try and steal another cadaver?"

"John, get down here! Sherlock's been…"

Suddenly, the call shorted out, leaving John with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He ran to the door, grabbing his coat and taking the stairs two at a time.

Mrs. Hudson came out at the noise. "Why, John dear, what's…"

"Mrs. Hudson, will you watch the stew? Something's happened to Sherlock. Thanks!" John yelled. He ran out and hailed a cab, jumping in quickly and hoping he wasn't too late.

Mrs. Hudson watched him go. "Oh, dear," she said quietly. "I wonder what poor Sherlock's gotten himself into now."

* * *

John leapt out of the cab at Scotland Yard, intent on getting to Sherlock.

The sight that met his eyes scared the living daylights out of him.

Half of Scotland Yard's building had been blown away, fires still burning around the edges. People and police officers alike were running frantically around on the sidewalk, panicking. John picked up his pace, running towards the building as though his life depended on it.

_In a way, it does_, a small voice in John's head said as he sprinted towards the ruins.

_Because there's no way you can live without Sherlock Holmes_.

* * *

"Greg!" John shouted, "Greg, where are you?"

"In here, John!" a voice came out of Greg's office.

John darted into the room, barely daring to breathe. As soon as he entered, his eyes scanned the room, looking for the detective.

Sherlock was sitting in the corner in one of Greg's desk chairs. His face was streaked with dirt and blood, a long, grisly cut running across his cheek. His clothes were ripped and he was missing a shoe, hair matted with grime. There was a thick gash along the inner crook of his elbow, against which he was holding his own bloodstained scarf. Sherlock's skin was very pale, and his eyes were shadowed and dark

What scared John the most was the fact that his lover was shaking.

Sherlock Holmes was _shaking_.

Now, John knew that, no matter how many times Sherlock denied it, the detective was only human. But shaking…as far as he knew, the only time Sherlock had ever been this shaky had been during the Baskerville case.

John wove his way over to Sherlock, barely hearing the conversation between the others in the background.

Sherlock's eyes followed him as he approached. "John," he said hoarsely.

"Sherlock…oh, God, I thought I'd lost you." John tried to hold back the hot tears that threatened. "Greg called and I didn't know…I wasn't sure if you…" he couldn't finish the sentence.

"You're not rid of me yet, John," Sherlock rasped in a thin voice, trying to put some humor in the conversation and miserably failing.

"Jesus, Sherlock, that's not funny!" John said desperately. "I thought you had died! Do you know how I would feel if I got here and you were…you were…"

This time the tears did come, fast and thick, blurring John's vision.

"John," Sherlock uttered. He drew his lover into a tight hug, despite his own injuries. "I…I was so scared, John," Sherlock whispered quietly in John's ear, shaking hands clutching John's own. "I was thinking of you, and how I couldn't…couldn't die because…I love you, so much…"

After many long minutes of their comforting embrace, John pulled away and began to examine and tend to Sherlock's injuries. "At least you aren't too badly injured, love."

Greg wandered over and set down a first aid kit at Sherlock's side. "Hello, John."

"Greg, what the bloody hell happened here?" John asked, gently washing Sherlock's face with his handkerchief.

"I would say that's rather obvious, John," Sherlock tried for his usual obnoxious tone, though it failed slightly when his voice shook.

"Someone planted a bomb in the filing room." Greg said uneasily.

"The filing room?" John inquired as he stuck a plaster over the cut on Sherlock's cheek. "Why the filing room?"

Greg and Sherlock shared a look. John stopped and raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"You're not going to like it, John." Greg warned.

John began to gently clean the grime from the cut on Sherlock's arm. "I can handle it."

Greg took a deep breath. "We believe that the bomb was meant for Sherlock."

John dropped the plaster he had been about to apply to Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, regaining some of his composure. "I _told_ you he wouldn't take it well."

"Why do you think that?" John asked in a controlled voice, bending down to pick up the plaster he had dropped.

"At this time of the morning? No one but Sherlock Holmes would be in the filing room, going through old cold cases," said Anderson snidely, wandering over with Sally. He had a black eye and a nasty-looking cut on his forehead coated with blood. Sally looked to be unharmed but shaken.

"Not to mention the message." Sherlock said nonchalantly.

John pushed the plaster on just a bit too hard, making Sherlock yelp. "Sorry. What message?"

Greg sighed. "Come on," he said tiredly. "I'll show you." He turned and headed out the door, Sally and Anderson following close behind, speaking in murmuring voices.

John made to follow him and saw Sherlock getting up out of the corner of his eye. He turned back around. "Ah, ah, ah," he said, pushing him gently back down into the chair. "You're injured, love…I won't have you prancing all over creation."

"I don't _prance_, John," Sherlock said, deeply disgusted with his choice of words. "And it's not 'all over creation'…just to the conference room. It's barely ten feet down the hall, you know that."

John sucked in a breath, then let it out with a whoosh. "Fine. Fine. Okay. You can come. But the minute…no, the very _second_ you start feeling even the least bit faint or nauseous I'm calling you an ambulance."

"Don't you think you're overdoing it just a bit?" Sherlock asked snidely. "I've had injuries worse than this and no one ever called an ambulance for _those_."

"That's because you have me now, 'Lock, and I'm too much in love with you to let you go." John headed down the hall. Sherlock stood for a moment, in slight shock.

_No one's ever said anything like that to me before._

"Are you coming?"

Sherlock walked after John, musing upon this feeling that he was currently experiencing.

He wasn't sure, but it might have been the feeling that he was finally, finally loved by someone.


	2. Messages

Greg walked up to the door, followed by John, Sherlock, Sally, and Anderson. He placed his hand on the knob and turned to John. "Try not to freak out," he said warningly.

He threw open the door and John almost choked on his own saliva when they walked into the room.

It looked as though someone had committed an extremely bloody murder in the Scotland Yard meeting room. The walls and floor, and even sections of the ceiling, were spattered with spots and streaks of red. On closer inspection, John could see that it was just red paint; but it was still disturbing, nonetheless. On the wall next to the door, over the table, a message had been spray-painted in a familiar yellow paint.

When John read the words written there, he couldn't breathe.

_Give me Sherlock Holmes, and no one else need die._

"Same paint from the Chinese smugglers case. Message is straight and to the point, though rather vague. For instance, if we desired to comply with this request, how would we know who to give me to?"

John rolled his eyes as Greg snorted. "Sherlock, 1. We're talking about real human lives here, and 2. We are not "complying" with this "request". Okay?"

Anderson cocked his head to the side. "But then what do we do?"

Everyone in the room turned to him. "What do you mean?" Sally asked, confused.

"Well, suppose we don't give him up…"

"We're not giving him up, so that's a bit pointless," John interrupted heatedly.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Anderson said impatiently. "But you saw what the message said. "Give me Sherlock Holmes, and no one else need die". Does that mean if we don't give him up, more people are going to get killed?"

"He's got a point," Sally said. "Is it really moral to sacrifice the lives of others for the life of one man?"

John stalked up into her face. "What the bloody hell are you suggesting? That we give him up to this sadistic villain who's already blown up an entire building?" he laughed derisively. "How is that in any way moral?"

"I'm not saying that it's moral," Sally said defensively. "But you have to remember that, from a police officer's point of view, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few."

Greg turned to Sherlock as the two continued to argue. "What do _you_ think?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock put his hands together in his traditional thinking pose. After a few moments of silence, only broken by the background noise of John and Sally arguing over what to do, he spoke. "I think…"

"I think you're going about this all wrong."

John and Sally both stopped and turned towards him. "What the hell do you mean, freak?" Sally asked viciously, only stopping to glare at John.

"Isn't obvious, Sergeant Donovan?" Sherlock smirked. "All we have to do is predict where the criminal will hit next and then catch him in the act."

Anderson rolled his eyes. "Except for the fact that we don't know anything about him, no one's ever seen him, and we don't even know how he did _this_ one."

"Anderson, did you have to attend a special _school_ to become this stupid, or were you _born_ with it?" Sherlock asked cuttingly. "Of _course_ I know that. Unlike you, I have more than five brain cells."

Anderson opened his mouth, but Greg held up a hand. "Craig. Not now."

He shut his mouth with a click, and Sherlock looked satisfied. He leapt up from his perch against the doorframe. "What we need to do is wait for his next attack. That will give us some kind of idea what we're dealing with."

Sally's jaw dropped. "Wait until there's another attack? Are you crazy?"

Greg sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "I don't get paid enough for this shit." He turned to Sherlock with the air of one explaining a simple natural phenomenon to a child. "Look, Sherlock…in this explosion, twelve people; nine officers and three innocent pedestrians; were killed. We can't just sit here and wait for it to happen again. That's…that's just not right."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Why not?"

All three of the others gave him a wide-eyed look of exasperation.

Sherlock turned to John. "Bit not good?" he asked.

John hesitantly nodded. "Lot not good."

Sally flipped her hair angrily. "Of course the _sociopath_ isn't going to understand. It's not like he's human." She sighed. "The point is, we can't just sit around waiting for his next attack. We need to figure out how to _prevent_ another attack."

Anderson rolled his eyes, frustrated. "How do we do that without information, though?"

"Well, obviously, the first thing we need to do is…" Sherlock suddenly trailed off in the middle of his sentence.

John gently tugged on his fingers. "Sherlock? Sherlock, are you okay?"

Sherlock squinted his eyes, tilting his head to the side, as though trying to hear something quiet. "What the…" he trailed off, eyes connecting with a certain unidentifiable point. He suddenly started, as though he had heard something game-changing.

He quickly knelt down and stared across the room, eyes mere slits, at the corner near the message, where the wall and ceiling met. His eyes went wide quite suddenly.

"GET OUT!" he screamed. "GET OUT! RIGHT NOW!"

Everybody heard the last ten clicks of a bomb begin as they ran for the door.

_10_

Greg gripped the door handle and wrenched it open.

_9_

Sally ran out the door, Greg pushing her none-too-gently.

_8_

Greg ran out after her, yelling "John, come on!"

_7_

John sprinted out the door, desperately hoping Sherlock was directly behind.

_6_

Sherlock ran towards the door, intent on getting out of the room.

_5_

Moments before he entered, he heard Sally's shrill scream of "CRAIG!"

_4_

Sherlock turned and saw Anderson standing in the center of the room, paralyzed by fear.

_3_

Time seemed to stand still as Sherlock sprinted back towards the forensics officer.

_2 _

Sherlock grabbed Anderson by the back of his jacket and yanked him towards the door.

_1_

They weren't going to make it.

One second to make an impossible decision.

_"Of course the __**sociopath**__ isn't going to understand. It's not like he's human."_

_0_

Sherlock used his running momentum to shove Anderson out the door just as the bomb exploded.

Small bits of broken glass and wood fragments flew past him like sharp raindrops as the world went black.


	3. Recoveries

_A/N; December has to be the busiest time of the year._

_However, thanks to Christmas break, I finally have updating time! So, here…have some more angst, just in time for the end of the year and the return of the detective :)_

_Merry Christmas!_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

"John. John. C'mon, mate, wake up…"

John's eyes fluttered open. He focused on Greg's face, which wavered in front of him, along with shades of red and gray. Small particles of black and white floated down onto his face, getting caught in his lashes.

John blinked. "Is it…snowing?" he asked hoarsely.

"No," Greg said, sounding relieved. "How do you feel?"

"Like I just got run over by a delivery truck," John said, groaning as he sat up, "Where's Sherlock?"

Greg looked around at Sally and Anderson, who were standing behind him. Anderson was cradling his wrist, which was bent painfully and obviously broken. Sally had her arm around him, a thin gash near the crook of her neck bleeding onto her white shirt. Both had grave looks on their faces.

John's face turned completely ashen. "Oh, Jesus…"

Greg crouched down so that he was on eye level with John. "John…we haven't found him yet. But we've got all our best people looking. He's gotta be here somewhere."

"But he's…he's…" John trailed off, unable to say anything, head pounding.

"Just take it easy, John," Greg said gently. "You're of no use to Sherlock like this."

John struggled to understand. "He was right…right behind me. On the way out. How did he…"

Anderson shifted his weight.

John's eyes went wide. "YOU!" he yelled. He jumped to his feet and promptly fell forwards onto his face.

"No, John, it wasn't Craig's fault, just calm down…"

John fought weakly against Greg's hold, fists flailing feebly towards Anderson. "You bastard, you utter bastard, how could you…"

"John, he saved Craig's life!"

"Go rot in hell, you bast-"

John broke off, brain processing what Greg had said. "W-what?"

Greg carefully propped John up against the wall, letting him rest comfortably. "Craig was a bit…paralyzed, in there. Sherlock ran back in and got him." Greg took a deep breath. "John, what Sherlock did was a very heroic thing to do. He had to have known there was no way he'd get out-" Greg broke off awkwardly.

"Alive." John said, voicing Greg's last word in a hollow, emotionless voice.

John sat there for several minutes, staring at the opposite wall. When he finally spoke, his voice was a mere whisper, hoarse with loss and sadness.

"He always said there was no such thing as heroes."

John's voice finally broke.

"I wish he had been right."

* * *

A soft knock was heard on the side of the ambulance. Greg looked up to see Mycroft appear at the door. Though he appeared as calm as ever, Greg could see the barely-disguised panic in his eyes.

"Gregory," he said, relief apparent in his voice.

Greg stood up and ran over, embracing his boyfriend. Mycroft threw his arms around his love, kissing him with abandon.

"Gregory, I must admit I was extremely afraid for you," Mycroft whispered, burying his face in the inspector's grey hair.

"God, Mycroft…" Greg said, trailing off. He leaned in and laid his head against Mycroft's shoulder, gripping the government man's hands in his own.

"This is all very touching, but can you two just break it up for a moment?" John said grouchily from where he sat on the tailgate of the ambulance, wrapped in a bright orange shock blanket.

"Well, excuse me for greeting _my_ boyfriend." Greg said sarcastically.

John's face went stark white.

Greg's eyes widened. "Oh, God…John, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean…"

"Yeah. Sure. Whatever." John said roughly. He swiped a hand at his eyes and stood up, heading down the pavement. "I'm going to walk a bit."

"Be careful…" Greg trailed off as he realized the doctor wasn't listening.

Greg sighed and turned back to Mycroft. "Sorry. Sherlock-"

"Didn't make it out," Mycroft finished his sentence. "You forget that I have contacts everywhere." He shifted his weight, drumming his fingers on his umbrella's handle.

"Oh. Right." Greg said. He sat back down heavily on the edge of the trailer, putting his head in his hands. "I'm so sorry, Mycroft. He was right there…and then he wasn't."

"I know, Gregory," Mycroft said, voice full of sorrow. He sat down next to the inspector and put an arm around him, pulling him in close. Greg leaned his head on Mycroft's shoulder and closed his eyes, trying to erase the flashes of red and gray that flitted before his eyes.

It was peaceful until they heard the shocked screams from outside Scotland Yard's destroyed offices.

Mycroft's arm loosened as he stood up and squinted towards the crowd, trying to see what was happening. Greg watched as the government man's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates when he saw what was there.

"Sherlock…" he whispered.

Greg leapt up. "Mycroft, what is it?"

"It's…Sherlock," he said, in a state of shock. He pointed towards the building with shaking hands.

Greg peered over and gasped at what he saw.

Sherlock was standing at the middle of the crowd, having just stumbled out of the large pile of still-smoking wreckage from the explosion. He was covered in ash and blood, his skin paper-white, whole body shaking. He took a step and collapsed onto his face, trembling legs unable to support him.

The world seemed to turn in slow motion. Greg threw off the blanket and ran towards him, followed closely by Mycroft. They pushed through the people in the crowd, forcing their way towards the consulting detective.

"Sherlock…" Greg said as they reached him, voice choked. He felt Mycroft crouch down next to him, staring, horrified, at his brother's body.

"LET ME THROUGH! LET ME THROUGH!"

Greg heard John's screams as the army doctor pushed and shoved his way through the crowd with abandon to drop down by Sherlock.

"Sherlock…Sherlock…" he moaned. He grabbed the detective's wrist and felt his pulse, then checked his breathing.

"He's alive," John whispered, lighting a spark of hope in all their hearts. He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on Sherlock's bruised cheek.

The detective's eyes fluttered open, taking a few moments before finally focusing on the people around him. His eyes traveled from John, to Greg, to Mycroft, and back to John.

"J-jhon…" he said in a quiet, strangled voice

John brushed bits of dried blood and ash off of Sherlock's lashes tenderly. "I know, love, I know. I'm here."

"I'll always be here."


	4. Vipers

_A/N; Apologies for the lack of updates, but I've been struggling with a light case of writer's block as well as a rather serious case of irritating-parent-won't-get-the-fuck-out-of-my-life XP However, I hope to be back on track with all my stories by the end of January…stay tuned for more of Healing And Crying; it's in the works as I babble on here._

_Also, I honestly have no idea where Angelo's is in relation to the Yard or if the type of snake described even exists. As many of you know, I have no sense of distance whatsoever and I tend to love inventing stuff, soooo…activate suspension of disbelief now. *flips down cool sunglasses*_

_Hope you all had great holidays!_

_This chapter is dedicated to my dear Sherlock ADD buddy. I promised you angst, dear. Here it is, fresh, new, and wrapped in a bow ;)_

_Ta,_

_Anonymoustache_

* * *

John set the cup on the table in front of Sherlock and sat down next to the detective, placing a careful kiss on his cheek.

"How're you feeling, love?"

"Oh, I'm peachy, John," Sherlock deadpanned, "Just peachy."

John smiled fondly and gently took his lover's hand. "Same old Sherlock."

Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

"You got off lucky, mate," Greg reminded him as the detective took a sip of the hot tea John had brought him. "No broken bones or anything, just some scrapes and scratches."

John didn't say anything, just gave Sherlock a gentle smile as he brushed one of Sherlock's curls off his forehead, fingers skimming over a long cut down the side of his face.

When John had first seen the detective's body, he had panicked. There had been so much blood on the detective's body; John had been scared out of his wits. However, once he had gotten Sherlock up and taken him to the ambulance, he had found that most of the blood wasn't his own, much to John's relief.

Sherlock had gotten off easier than most, though, Greg was right. Aside from the cut on his face and some small nicks and bruises over his body, the detective was unharmed.

John had never been more relieved in his entire life.

* * *

"He's still alive!"

_"Of course he's still alive, you idiotic excuse for a human being! I didn't mean for him to die."_

"Oh. Why not?"

_"Because that would be detrimental to my plan."_

"What plan?"

_"Jesus Christ, do I have to spell everything out for you, you nincompoop? The plan! The plan!"_

"Ohhhhh. _That_ plan."

_"Yes, bean-brain. That plan."_

"But how do you know he'll fall for it?"

_"Oh, he will. Trust me."_

"How do you know?"

_"Why do you ask so many questions?"_

"Because I don't know what you're talking about?"

_"They told me that the assistant I got for this one would actually be smart…Anyways, I just know."_

"But _how_?"

_"He's a genius who loves a good puzzle. And, to lure him in, I will create the__** ultimate**__ puzzle for our friend Mr. Holmes."_

_"He won't be able to resist."_

* * *

Sherlock shifted slightly in his seat, removing his hand from the side of the hot teacup. John's warm, comforting hand was still linked with his own. Mycroft was sitting across from them, watching as Greg discussed something with Anderson near the door to Angelo's.

The detective sighed and looked out the window and down the block at the still-smoldering wreckage of Scotland Yard.

"You okay?" John asked worriedly.

"Yeah, yeah…fine…" Sherlock said absentmindedly.

John raised an eyebrow, but said nothing more. He gave Sherlock's hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

Sherlock sat there for a few more moments, then abruptly let go of John's hand and stood up. "I need to use the restroom."

"Do you need…" John trailed off, looking around, then said more quietly, "help?"

"I'm fine, John, I'm _fine_!" Sherlock said more harshly than he intended.

John drew back with a slightly hurt look. "Oh. O-kay. Sorry."

Sherlock stepped back and walked quickly to the bathroom, the look on John's face burning into his eyelids.

* * *

Sherlock threw open the door to the bathroom and turned, shutting and locking it behind him.

He leaned against the door and let out a deep breath.

_Peace and quiet._

That was all he needed, he told himself as he walked to the sink and splashed his pale face with a couple handfuls of cold water.

Peace and quiet.

As Sherlock was drying his face with a paper towel, he heard a strange hissing noise from the last stall.

He threw the towel away and turned to stare at the stall, eyes narrowing, trying to deduce what was inside.

_Low hissing, pauses in between…_

_Most likely a leaky toilet._

_But…I can't be sure._

He frowned as a small, strange thought appeared in his brain.

_What if it isn't? What if you're wrong?_

"Why would it matter?" he muttered to himself, still staring at the half-open stall door.

_Because you're Sherlock Holmes, _said that same quietly misleading voice.

_And you're never wrong._

Sherlock stepped towards the stall and, carefully pushing the door inwards, stepped in.

He found himself facing a rather large and very dangerous-looking snake, hissing and weaving back and forth.

Sherlock slowly backed up and out of the stall as the snake began to glide silently towards him, venom dripping from its jaws.

_Oh, shit._

Suddenly, the snake flew forward, jaws stretched wide. Sherlock dove out of the way, towards the sinks, and the viper hit the wall, hissing violently. It fell forward, collapsing onto itself, stunned.

Sherlock slid backwards, underneath the sink, pushing himself as far back in the corner as he could. He grabbed the edge of the water pipe on the wall next to him as the snake slithered towards him again, eye slits shrinking beadily, full of anger and rage.

He closed his eyes, desperately hoping for someone, anyone, to come and rescue him.

As the viper inched closer and closer, a knock sounded on the door.

* * *

John knocked gently on the door.

"Sherlock? You okay in there?"

John heard a gasp, then a quiet, terrified voice.

"John…John, please, open the door, please, Jesus Christ…"

John's eyes went wide. Sherlock never swore…not like that, anyways. He grabbed the handle and twisted it to find it was locked.

"Sherlock, where are you?" he said loudly to the door, gaining several strange looks from other people. He waved to Greg and motioned him over, and began to ram his shoulder against the door with all his might.

"By the sinks…John, hurry, it's coming closer…"

Greg appeared by John's side as the doctor continued to attempt his door-breaking, closely followed by Mycroft. "What's wrong?" he asked, concerned.

"Sherlock's in the bathroom, something's gone wrong, and the idiot's gone and locked the door," John said, out of breath.

"Right," Greg said. He stood back, looked at the door and, taking a deep breath, ran forwards and brought up his feet, slamming into the door with all his might. The door crumpled in front of him as though it was made of paper.

The inspector fell backwards, hitting the floor hard, eyes going wide. Mycroft dropped down beside him, panicked.

A scream echoed from inside, mingled with hissing and the sound of something or someone scrabbling against the floor.

John dove through the doorway and into the bathroom to see Sherlock, writhing furiously underneath the sinks as a snake attacked him again and again, biting viciously into pale flesh with its long, sharp fangs, blood spilling from each deep puncture wound.

John pulled out his gun and aimed for the snake as Sherlock continued to wrestle it, but to no avail.

"I can't get it…it's moving too fast!" John yelled.

* * *

Mycroft looked up from where he was kneeling by a quite shell-shocked Greg as he heard John's scream. "Damn it," he muttered, gaze traveling between the bathroom doorway and Greg. "I knew I'd eventually have to make this choice."

He stood and dove towards the bathroom. "Sorry, love," he yelled over his shoulder, "I'll be back in just a moment…"

"I'm fine, don't worry about me…" Greg said faintly, voice hoarse. "Never felt better..."

Mycroft flew around the corner to see Sherlock, covered in glistening scarlet blood and fang marks, wrestling with an angry viper. Its fangs were coated in what Mycroft could only assume was Sherlock's blood.

"Help me, Mycroft! For God's sake, _do_ something!" John screamed, gun waving wildly as he tried to pinpoint the snake's location.

Mycroft looked around helplessly. "What do you suggest?" he yelled, throwing his arms up in the air.

"I don't know! Anything!" John yelled back, panicking.

Sherlock began to weaken as the snake bit into his arm yet again, movements becoming sluggish and slow.

"Quick! We're losing him!" John said, voice choked, tears slipping down his face.

Mycroft turned in a circle, desperately looking for anything to help. Then, he spotted it. Just outside the door, on a table where a frightened couple were sitting and staring.

Mycroft ran back into the restaurant, grabbing a long, sharp-pronged meat fork off the table, and darted back to the bathroom, jumping over Greg, who was still lying on the floor with Sally kneeling next to him.

"Don't worry, I'm fine, it's jus' the back…" Greg mumbled as Sally gently pushed a tablecloth underneath him to prop up his neck.

* * *

"Sherlock!" John screamed in a terrifying voice, collapsing to his knees and covering his mouth with his shaking hands as the detective slumped back against the bloodstained wall, eyes closed. The snake slithered backwards in a semicircle, hissing softly as it eyed Sherlock's neck, preparing for the final kill.

Mycroft burst in through the doorway and, hoping and praying to whatever gods may have been out there that his aim was still considerably good, threw the meat fork down towards the snake.

A strangled, wounded hiss echoed off the bathroom walls as the sharp metal pierced the snake's blood-splattered skin, pinning him to the floor.

Slowly, _slowly_, the viper stopped twitching and fell still.

Dead.


End file.
